


Hysteria

by MurderInk



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Actually what morals, Age Difference, And by better I mean ten times worse, Beverly Katz is the Best, But Will is not underage, Cannibalism, Dark Will Graham, Dogs, Drama, Dubious Morality, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gay, Hallucinations, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Hannibal is a Diva, Hannibal will make it better, Loss of Identity, Love Triangles, M/M, Manipulation, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Not a teacher-student relartionship, One-sided Matthew Brown/Will Graham - Freeform, Slow Burn, Unstable Will, Will in denial, Winston is a cinnamon roll, lesbian love, morally speaking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-09-27 08:26:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9985250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MurderInk/pseuds/MurderInk
Summary: In which Will Graham gets entangled in a deadly web of strange encounters and Hannibal Lecter is pleased with it. It's a song only the two of them can hear and the world spins around it without even knowing it.OrWill Graham, socially awkward sophomore extraordinaire, meets Hannibal Lecter in the most boring, pedestrian places.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written a hannigram or NBC Hannibal before and I am a bit nervous about posting anything. I know it's not the best but I hope I'll improve if I write more. Might be slightly OOC. 
> 
> English is not my first language so there might be mistakes here and there. Please let me know :)

Prologue

His fingers hit the cold white marble table idly as he stared off into space. The lecture hall was silent, bar for the almost silent shift of pages and the occasional tired sigh. The world outside was blissfully unaware of what transpired inside those endless, clinically white halls that reverberated at the softest step, carrying words otherwise gently spoken like screams of battles of the olden days. How could anyone bear being inside this building for longer than twenty minutes was a mystery to the curious mind of a bright, but awkward young man, but then he supposed that the way he viewed the world rarely coincided with the way others viewed the world and this would be no exception. If at times he wished that hadn't been so, he never mentioned it and passed through life seemingly unaffected by his striking different way of being.

Oh, yes. He was different. People ought to remind him daily, whether it was a confused glance in his direction whenever he said or did something or an outright remark about that being the case, it hardly made a difference. Ultimately, he avoided social interaction like the plague and surrounded himself with a considerable number of dogs, who would never dare question his odd habits or why he sometimes seemed to have a mental adventure of sorts only he knew about every now and then. Rest assured, Will Graham was an odd, twitchy man whom no one understood or seemed to want to. Even the so-called social outcasts seemed to want to have nothing to do with him and although it bothered him at first, the sentiment was short lived and soon he learned that he was by far more comfortable in the safe silence of the library during breaks and blue walls of his tiny apartment.

He was a sophomore already, an odd duck with a penchant for writing, crime and art, although the latter was only a hobby he sometimes allowed himself to indulge in. He had no guidance, no mentor in that respect so his style was raw, blunt but it kept him occupied and that was what, in fact, interested him. His mind was a vast conglomeration of uncanny events unlikely to happen to the average human being in today's society or at least that's what people usually thought. That this or that couldn't possibly happen to them, until of course, it happened and suddenly the matter didn't seem so funny or impossible to them anymore. But people lived their lives usually, fortunately blissfully unaware- obviously as a means to protect themselves from stress and worry- of the things that transpired in the darker corners of society, blind and oblivious to the imminent threats that lurked among them. Will, however, did not. He was one of the few unlucky ones who couldn't be blindfolded by the dazzling light cloth the world tried to wrap around his head, wouldn't be rendered oblivious to the gruesome shades his environment was painted with. He saw past behind the veil, terrible glimpses of the shadow world where people were no longer men and women but creatures of fantasy and horrific tales shared at midnight in hushed tones and frightened breaths. It tormented him while awake and it consumed him while asleep.

Thus he stood misunderstood amongst a swarming, endless crowd of blindfolded joyful people trying to make sense of the space between the light and endless void without losing touch with what people deemed as sane. He wasn't sane, while Dr. X or Y would label him as autistic, Dr. Z would say he was schizophrenic and a deranged psychopath. Whatever the case, no one seemed to understand his mind or point of view so he chose the most sensible path and refused to have any contact with anyone eager to tinker with his so-called broken cogs. He moved away and never mentioned anything going on in his head to anyone. People simply assumed that he preferred solitude and avoided him for the most part, though there was always someone who wouldn't hesitate to mock him or try to humiliate him every now and then. And he usually let it slide unless he felt like sliding a sarcastic remark which sometimes led to more problems and sometimes it led to silence and more avoidance. Either way, he couldn't bring himself to truly care.

Just like the monotone low voice Professor Bowman, he ignored the pointed look he had been the subject of for the past hour coming from his left. Matthew Brown was terrible at being subtle, that much everyone knew, but somehow he was invisible to Will Graham who failed to acknowledge his existence for a year and two months already. Not that Matthew counted, he swore he didn't no matter what that cheeky girl in the desk two seats in front of him claimed. When class was finally over, Will was brought out of his pensive mood by the deafening series of books being slammed together and people hastily leaving the room without sparing a single glance behind them. He took it as his cue to leave and after unceremoniously tucking his notebook away he made his way out of the room as quietly as he did almost anything ever. And he still managed to completely ignore Matthew Brown's eager, heated stares as the latter followed him down the hallway.

Matthew was an odd bean, if only for the fact that he was genuinely interested in Will Graham, the notorious ultimate social outcast of Baltimore University, in a non-threatening or non-mocking way. He hadn't been following the latter around for as long as he's been attending this university, that much he somehow managed to accomplish, but since the beginning of this academic year, a quite recent development then- he limited himself to furtive glances and occasional intense stares in Will's general direction for the past year but he could never bring himself to do more than that, not at first at least. Will was blissfully unaware, a rather peculiar thing considering the obsessive paranoid thoughts that inhabited his mind on a daily basis. It was a mystery to anyone who happened to notice, especially to Matthew but he was also persistent bordering on obsessed and besides no one sane would actually find Will interesting, if you cared for the most popular opinion. People glanced at him pitifully, at times sympathetically- although that was truly a rare occurrence- and more often than not mockingly but Matthew was as unmoved and disinterested as his idol was in that respect. He knew, like Will knew, that he was made of a different fabric than those around him and he had stopped long ago trying to pretend that wasn't the case.

But soon Will was exiting the university, slowly but steadily making his way across the campus to what, Matthew thought, would be the direction to his apartment and while he was intrigued about Will's lair he wouldn't dare follow him that far. Somehow he sensed the man would resent him for it and that was not how he wanted Will to meet him for the first time. Which was technically untrue, seeing as they've been in the same course for a long time already, but despite what everyone said, Matthew simply knew Will Graham never acknowledged him. Will never acknowledged anyone, it was one of the few things Matthew had noticed about him and primarily what could be considered the reason why his obsession began in the first place. The rest was history. The rest simply managed to ensnare the poor lad into an anti-climatic game actively played only by him and him alone. But if Matthew Brown was anything, then he was optimistic, to the point where he drove himself or at least others insane.

Will was soon out of the sight of a certain someone, albeit he was unaware of it, freely roaming the streets of Baltimore, Maryland. He had no real destination, no real desire to go home or back to the next lecture and simply let his legs carry him wherever they pleased. His mind, as usual, was elsewhere- trapped in a nightmarish forest of sorts for some unknown reason, silent as the dead and bright yellow despite the pitch black, starless sky above him. No one dared to move in his forest, though saying that the forest was his is, perhaps, a loose statement -hardly anything ever belonged to him- and the air was still and wet, suffocating Will to the point where he could feel it in real life as well. The trees were tall and numerous and the ground wore a dense blanket of dead, yellow leaves, his feet promptly sinking in as he tried to navigate around. As far as he knew he was alone. No animal dared roam around the Golden, no, Yellow Forest and Will could not blame them. Albeit pretty, the place stank of death and stillness and whatever it was that lurked inside it vigorously sucked the life out of the place ceaselessly. Will was unsure why he himself was there to begin with, but then he supposed that destruction followed him wherever he went. Even if it was just in his head, or shall I say especially because he was in his head.

In the real world, however, his feet took him to an unlikely place, at least in his case, and soon he was sitting in a high stool by the window with a coffee carefully nested in his right hand. Cliché, of course, but rather fitting as his eyes fought hard to stay open and his mind created pictures of nonsensical violence carefully woven with dread. Will couldn't sleep the night prior and before that he had four hours of unfortunately interrupted sleep around 3 am, the usual hour he always woke up if he was lucky enough to fall asleep in the first place. 3 am, the hour of the devil, they said, although if anyone asked Will he didn't care much for such foolish superstitions. It was simply a matter of science and how the human body worked to him, but even so the uneasy, almost vicious feeling of something being out of place crept firmly inside his head and vehemently refused to leave no matter what he told himself. Something was not right. Sometimes he'd wake up from a dreamless sleep, more alert than he ever was in his wakefulness with the distinct feeling that someone or something was persistently watching him but no amount of double checking ever proved that. It was heard falling asleep afterwards and usually he managed to accomplish that around 6 am or 7 when it was already too late for him to go back to sleep. Other times he would have terrible nightmares filled with red and gore and all things undesired and in the midst of it all he'd wake, confused and frightened to a damp bed and uncomfortably dark room. He'd lay awake for hours trying to understand but to no success and soon he'd be swept into another suffocating vision. The next day he would feel so devoid of life and energy that he would fail to notice the eager looks Matthew would throw in his direction or the disapproving shakes people would give him at any given moment. In a way, he was blessed. On the other hand, the curse he had cast on him was not worth the effort. Whoever or whatever made him what he was must have been a soulless, sadistic fuck because surely what was happening to him wasn't acceptable by any means. But, as some would say, this was the price of imagination and Will Graham possessed an unusual, frightening amount of it. That was truly what set him apart from anyone and everyone around him. Not that anyone was aware of the true nature of his avoidant character, but they didn't need to know either.

"Such a peculiar world, don't you think?" the grave voice of a man startled Will out of his ceaseless thoughts, abruptly bringing him back to Earth, visibly leaving him a tad bit breathless. He doesn't turn his head to his left, the general direction of the man's voice and for a while he is convinced he must have imagined it in the first place, before the man speaks again, seemingly unperturbed by Will's utter dismissal. "Everything seems to change but in essence it remains the same, which makes you wonder if it truly is worth the struggle. Some would argue so."

This time Will is positive he is not imagining it and although he doesn't turn to look at the man, he nods in agreement if only just slightly. "But not you. Why?" He isn't exactly sure why he responded in the first place, let alone if the man is even talking to him but his words leave his mouth before he registered the act.

The man doesn't seem to care or find it strange, or at least Will thinks so. "No, most certainly not. Life, from a rational point of view, is meaningless. Feelings, thoughts and deeds are more often than not forgotten. Do you know about every being there is? I most certainly don't. And who knows about all dreams and tragedies of old? No one, really." Will opens his mouth to say something but the stranger is not done talking yet. "However, the key to living is to live, earnestly so, in such a way that cannot be forgotten, until of course the end of time itself is near and no one will be present to remember."

Will takes a healthy sip of his coffee, musing over the stranger's words for what seems to be an indefinite amount of time before he brings himself to say anything. "By doing so, however, it is inevitable that one would place themselves above another, marking their place in history by erasing another. It is quite...obscene."

"Perhaps, but then not everyone is worthy of being etched in stone." "But who decides who's worthy and who's not?" Will frowns deeply unsure by what the stranger is getting at, while the latter lets out a huff of laughter so softly Will is almost sure he imagined it. And, for the first time in a while, his head turns to get a better understanding of the situation he somehow ended in. The man is staring at him, unabashed and curious, his body slightly turned towards Will. He is older than Will initially thought, although he doesn't know why he thought that way, and is clad in a clearly expensive suit the colour of molten chocolate.

"That, indeed, is an intricate wearying question, is it not? Who would be granted such a right and if so, who gets to choose the ultimate judge?" The man asks, an eyebrow slightly rose as the words

"No one." Will's answer was firm, as if he was stating an absolute, irrefutable fact despite the tone of utter indifference that he carried. "Justice is blind, and while everyone walks around blinded by empty promises of a joyful paradise, they are not blind. They see, they see the beauty or perhaps, shall I say, they see the better part of the world, therefore they aren't blind. They couldn't serve justice."

"But you do not." It was not a question, it was a statement and Will thought his heart stops for a while. "You don't see the empty promises of a joyful paradise." Will's heartbeat picked up suddenly accelerating to the point where it threatened to break free from his ribcage. Petrified, he didn't respond, couldn't respond and the man understood it too. "What do you see?" He dared ask after a long, long, interminable pause.

"..."

"Not fond of eye contact, are you?" He asked all of a sudden, and for a second thought he could almost hear the man's amusement. He shook his head. "Eyes are distracting. See too much, don't see enough and it's hard to focus when you're thinking 'oh, those whites are really white', or 'he must have hepatitis', or 'is that a burst vein?' So yeah, I try to avoid eyes whenever possible."*

The stranger smiled upon hearing him, strangely so as Will did not expect him to, not that he expected him to do anything really, but somehow the action startled him. But, perhaps, what was truly mind-boggling was why he even said anything in the first place, after all Will Graham was not known as the king of social interaction, if anything people assumed he was simply incapable of it, yet here he was, discussing matters of life and justice and social life as it was with a complete stranger for no real reason. It was probably more than he had said in years and even to himself his voice sounded bitter and nothing of what he should have sounded like for someone of his age.

"A shame, really. Such mesmerising eyes should be a sight to behold, not be treated as a travesty, but that's just my personal opinion. Tell me, why here?" Will's eyebrow rose almost instantly to which the stranger continued, "Pardon me and correct me if I am wrong, you don't strike me as the type who'd willingly go to such a crowded venue."

At this, Will laughed briefly, if the huffing, almost silent noise can be called that and although unbeknownst to him, the stranger smiled again, clearly satisfied with his ability to illicit such a reaction from the younger male. "Yeah, I, uh, I don't do this," he gestured to the rest of the room restlessly with his hand before gripping his jaw as if trying to smoothen his face in search for an answer as to why was there in the first place. "I was bored. And tired. I, uh, couldn't sleep." Stop. "Class was not as entertaining as I hoped when I enrolled and staying focused seemed impossible at the time." Stop stop stop. What are you doing, Will? "But perhaps I shouldn't have picked a café, indeed."

"Perhaps not. But you have, as have I against my better judgement," the stranger noted in an understanding way.

Will, unable to stop himself, smiled softly for a brief moment, instantly comprehending what had just happened and thus being almost impossibly unable to stop himself from being satisfied with his own reaction. It was such an odd feeling he nearly got transfixed on it for a while before he spotted the other man's soft smile out of the corner of his blue, blue eyes.

What dragged you to this dreadful place?" In a clumsy, desperate attempt to hide his sudden revelation of sorts- he wanted it to belong to him and him only- he blurted out.

“Do you believe in fate?”

To be continued...


	2. The Swan and The Duck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Beverly and Will are best friends, people go missing and Hannibal Lecter invites our duckling to lunch.

 

**Chapter 1**

**The Swan and The Duck**

_ “Some birds avoid the water, ducks seek it” _

_ \-  _ African proverb

~.~

__________________

Will hated buses. And public transport in general. Too many eyes, too many minds who wandered all over the place and the smell was, often, intoxicating. But he couldn't afford a car.

And three days later, Will was riding the bus. It was a grey day in Baltimore and rain pelted down the metallic roof of the vehicle. The wind blew swiftly and cold, forcing him to resort to taking the bus. He needed to change to the central line in a few and he dreaded it probably just as much as the robust woman on the seat next to him. She smelled of home-cooked soup and cigarettes and she wore a pretty, flowery dress that stopped midway to her knees. She was tired, if the bags under her eyes and her occasional sigh were any of any indication and Will felt like the could relate to that. He couldn't sleep the previous night or rather he slept, for two hours that seemed to stretch to infinity as he ran and ran and ran through the dim forests of his mind. He woke up to a damp bed and the deafening sound of his alarm blaring to the too of its lungs.   
  
Will threw a last side glance to the woman on the seat by the window before he got up and left the bus. As predicted, the air outside was cold and damp and Will wrapped his green parka around him tighter as he sought refuge in a poor excuse of a bus station. He was going away for a while, hoping he would manage to relax just enough to sleep or at least get rid of his writer's block. He had an assignment due in two weeks and he wasn't anywhere near done. Will's hatred for deadlines was fierce and his professors knew that well. He somehow managed to get away with it because he did an amazing job, which undoubtedly earned him a plethora of dangerous glares from his fellow classmates but Will kept his eyes focused on the rim of his glasses and said nothing.    
  
And as he was getting on the bus, he spotted him again, the peculiar man from the café; their eyes met, if only for a second, and Will Graham had the distinct feeling that he was endlessly falling into their darkness. The dreadful spell was broken as he was engulfed by the heavy doors of the bus. He didn't miss, however, the faint smile the man seemed to give him as he continued his stroll and Will was left staring stupidly outside the wet windows, only vaguely acknowledging the young woman glaring at him from behind him. He stumbled forward when the bus moved and he floated to the nearest available seat mumbling a half-hearted apology to the woman behind. He briefly noted the blue sign on the wall for his seat an scoffed- if Dr. Chilton had his way he'd be locked up in an asylum, he might as well sit on the disabled seat. Grimacing at the thought, he gets up and awkwardly grips the handles of the bus. He ignores the glares and curious glances and focuses on the grey streets of Baltimore. It was going to be a long ride.

~.~

  
The next time he saw the man, Will was outside in the cold dark evening, walking an excited Winston around the city and the man just turned in his bar stool, as if he knew Will was there, and Will thought his heart would stop for a second. It didn't. If anything, it beat erratically in his chest but Winston was impatient and he let him drag him away. He looked away quickly and walked on, tucking away this incident at the bottom of his mind. It didn't matter. By the time he got home he was cold and tired and Winston stained the carpet again meaning that he was going to spend a long time scrubbing it for the evening. The dog studied him curiously as he scrubbed away the stain as if he wasn't the culprit.    
  
It was half past eleven when he finished and he plopped in his chair, finally allowing himself a break. As soon as he turned on his laptop his mind raced with all the ideas he could bring to life with the power of his keyboard but soon he got distracted, his draft joining a few other programs in his bar. "Guy Richy went missing" it read. Will clenched his jaw and opened the article. He didn't care for celebrities but his ears picked up random stuff every now and then. There has been a handful of disappearances lately and people were getting agitated. No one found his body yet, but the others had been displayed all over the state, each murder a grotesque tableu. Will couldn't call it anything else, the killer was skilled- that was no doubt- but he also had a penchant for theatrics and art. Not that people appreciated the killer or even understood him, they didn't. And that was partly why he was so hard to catch, apart from him being overly cautious and experienced. The Chesapeake Ripper, they called him and Will wondered what the killer thought about his moniker. 

Did he find it fitting? Did he despise it? Or was he simply indifferent towards it? After all it could have been a lot worse, but Will has an inkling that the killer didn't settle for less. He never did. He went to great lengths to be remarkable, unique and, dare he say, efficient. Anyone who had and took the time to break into a church and place a dead man with his tongue as a bookmark promptly placed in the Bible must, not only took great pride in what they did, but also think they're doing the world a service by eliminating certain people.

Will wrote tales of darkness and violence, enraptured by ruptured thoughts and impressions.

He didn't sleep that night.

~.~

“Winston, no!” Will shouted after him as the mutt gleefully greeted their guest. “Sit. Winston, sit. Now,” the command clear in his voice and his face contorted in an expression of pure sternness. The dog quietly obeyed, despite the restlessness in his eyes.

“Still a wild one I see," Beverly noted.

Will snickered. “You know him. A people's boy.”

“Unlike you,” she playfully added and Will raised his hands in mock defense. “How's writing going?” she inquired as soon as Winston calmed down and they managed to move past the door. “I heard Mr. Sherwood loves a tragic story, wink wink, nudge nudge.” 

“Hah. I don't know about that but I do know he appreciates abstract art. I might have a chance to pass this year.”

Beverly rolled her eyes. “You’ll do fine. You turn up with incredible material over night. You have a deep understanding of your work and your work has a deep understanding of the world.”

“The story writes itself. I only make it physical. If I can't pull myself together to tell it, I'll fail,” he confessed, eyes cast downwards.

“You can do it,” she reassured him, her hand patting his shoulder briefly in a friendly gesture. “Now I think you promised me an NCIS marathon, no?”

Will smiles for the first time that day and grabs a bag of super-sized marshmallows from the kitchen counter and proceeded to make two large mugs of hot chocolate with extra foam.

~.~

There he was again. The stranger in the ridiculous plaid suits. He was browsing through the ties at, what looked to be, a shop expensive enough to buy Will's whole family, past or future although if he stopped to think about it he knew that it was highly unlikely he'd ever have a family his own and he was an only child so the line would die with him. 

His father died years ago and his mother left when he was an infant. Maybe he does have a brother or a sister somewhere but the thought doesn't entertain him for long. What point would there be in meeting strangers? Family isn't really family unless you have some sort of connection with them and Will felt none.

“Hello, Mister…?” It started out as a light-hearted greeting, the kind of greeting acquaintances would share, but it turned into a question as soon as the stranger realized he didn't know his name.

“Will,” he managed vaguely brought back to reality as he responded, to then fully understand what he heard; panic washed over him. “Um, Graham. My name is Graham but please call me Will.”

And he noticed, at last, the stranger standing in front of him, all clad in gray plaid, amusement dancing on his lips. He had been staring, Will gathers, and the stranger knew.

“A pleasure, Will. I'm Dr. Hannibal Lecter, I believe we have met before, but I can't recall where,” he introduced himself, politely extending a hand and Will briefly returned the handshake. A doctor, of course the first person who'd even talk to him be a doctor. Will hoped with all his might the man was a surgeon or even a neurologist.

“We have,” he acknowledged. “We met by chance at the caf three blocks from here.” Will studied intensely the tall building on the other side of the street. “It was an accident.”

“And yet by accident we meet again.” In that second Will knew that Dr. Lecter had remembered their first encounter before he even mentioned it; somehow it didn't faze him. “I'm on my way to get lunch if you'd like to accompany me?” An invitation. Kind and polite, but Will wasn't sure if he wanted to go with him.

Partly, he wanted to run the opposite direction although admittedly that was his aversion to people not Dr. Lecter, mostly he wanted to stay rooted to the spot- Will didn't find him that interesting and he failed to see why the man would even acknowledge his presence. But a tiny part of him, a part of him that usually slept in the depths of his mind, encouraged him to accept. He was looking at a day spent in the company of his Winston, a lovely past time, but he was also going to be tormented by thoughts. He knew that often, between the four walls of his bedroom, his imagination roamed wild and free. It did so wherever but maybe now he could quiet it, if only for a while. The story was taking its toll on him.

“I don't want to bother…” Last chance. Maybe the stranger simply wanted to be polite. The man looked like the type of person who'd be just that.

But Dr. Lecter managed would be best described as a small smile. “Nonsense. Your presence is lovely, Will, I'd be delighted to have you for lunch. Unless, of course, you have to tend to something else.”

There it was. His last chance to turn on his heels and go home, where it was safe,  _ safer, _ to be. But he didn't. Hell knows why, but he didn't. Instead he took one swift look at the stranger and then nodded. “No, I'm free for today.”

“Very well.” Another smile. “I know a nice place not far from here. Shall we?” and the man turned around, his back slightly facing Will.

“Yes.” But he didn't sound so sure.

Within fifteen minutes or so of silent walking, Will slightly falling a step behind, the doctor managed to describe him the history of the streets they were walking and at times he offered brief anecdotes of his past. It seemed like the man was fond of history and art, oh he loved exquisite paintings, and he has had his fair deal of accidental experience.

One in particular, two blocks from where they were now, took place a few years ago when Dr. Lecter was organizing a dinner party- apparently cooking was a passion of his- he was frantically looking for a rare type of cheese when he stumbled upon  _ Leda and the Swan  _ by François Boucher at a small antiques store he had never paid attention to before. He loved the painting so much he felt compelled to buy it at a ridiculous price and place it right in his dining room.

His guests seemed outraged but intrigued by his choice and Will could imagine a roomful of distinguished people trying to school their shocked and scandalized expressions while Dr. Lecter stood there calmly, stifling a grin.

Will wasn't sure if he was imagining things in order to understand the man better or if he caught a glimpse of who Dr. Lecter really was but he offered the doctor a wide smile anyway.

And Hannibal Lecter smiled back.

To be continued...

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole swans and ducks thing happened because of Hannibal painting. Originally, I had named the chapter the swan but then the words sitting duck came into my mind, let's face it Will Graham is like a sitting duck for the dangers Hannibal will likely put him through, and well, Hannibal is like a swan. He's elegant and refined so I found it fitting.

**Author's Note:**

> * Quote from the show


End file.
